To Go Boldly - Part 2

Episode Nine, Virtual Series Finale

To Go Boldly

By Distracted

Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: It’s been fun, but none of this is mine and I never made a cent.
Genre: Romance/Drama/Action Adventure
Summary: Enterprise heads back to Earth to offload non-combatants and children. The war is escalating, and soon they’ll be called into active combat as the flagship of the fleet. Can they make themselves ready for war in the short weeks they have left?

A/N: It’s still not done. The Hoshi/Malcolm storyline’s taken on a life of its own. I made up Joey and Paula, but Tex Wormald is quite real. He even speaks Xhosa...and he’s still single last I heard. ; )

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Part Two

The ancient grey-haired Vulcan was gaunt and weak, but his bearing remained regal. He sat, as was his wont each evening, propped by pillows in a chair by the side of his bed with a reader in his lap, purportedly studying the Kirshara. Moments before, he’d been snoring.

“You may leave now, Nurse. I am capable of preparing for bed without assistance,” he announced. T’Len eyed him dubiously. The higher ambient oxygen concentration and lower gravity of the human courier vessel Horizon had produced a surprising improvement in her charge’s stamina, but he hadn’t been able to change into his nightclothes without assistance for weeks, being unable to stand without support.

“Minister Kuvak,” she protested mildly, “I am responsible for your safety. Is it logical to risk a fall and broken bones less than a week before arriving at our destination?”

Kuvak lifted a brow at her and then deliberately set his reader on the side table. He gripped the arms of his chair, and to her well-concealed astonishment pushed himself slowly upright—with obvious effort, to be sure, but still upright—and in a moment stood completely without support.

“I am stronger today,” he said matter-of-factly.

She felt a twinge of illogical sadness. Death was a normal biological process. Vulcan philosophy discouraged grieving over the end of a productive life well-lived. The man before her was old and had accomplished much, but he was far from ready to die. It seemed unjust that his illness would take him so soon. He was still mentally alert and had so much to contribute. She forced herself to stay where she was as he shakily stepped toward the bed and reached out to catch himself. Once he had a good grip, she went to the closet and got out his night robes. She laid them on the bed beside him.

“Your night clothes are ready, Minister,” she replied respectfully. She nodded at the medical alert pendant around his neck. “Please call if you require assistance.”

Kuvak’s eyes sparkled as he nodded in return, but he didn’t thank her. It never occurred to either of them that the situation required it.

As the door closed behind her and she stepped into the corridor, the human captain approached her. Following him were a small child and a young woman, apparent refugees from the detour the captain had chosen to despite direct orders from both the Vulcan High Council and Starfleet Command to proceed to Earth without delay, according to Minister Kuvak. The minister had been surprisingly supportive of the captain’s decision despite this, and had murmured something about the “needs of the many” after she’d told him of it and before closing his eyes for an afternoon rest. The captain smiled thinly as he approached. T’Len acknowledged him with a grave nod.

“Captain Mayweather,” she said.

“Good evening, T’Len. How is Minister Kuvak tonight? Is his cabin temperature acceptable?” inquired Mayweather politely. T’Len raised a brow in mild surprise. The captain had been studiously avoiding her for the past 72.45 hours, and now he was solicitous of the minister’s comfort? Her eyes cut to the woman and child standing in the hallway. Their expressions of respectful interest solved the mystery. Human males weren’t so unlike Vulcan males, after all. The need to impress females transcended species boundaries, it seemed.

“The minister is much improved and quite comfortable. It is...kind...of you to ask,” she attempted in response. Human social niceties were not her strong suit. Mayweather’s smile broadened, and the woman who accompanied him stepped forward with an inquiring look. The child hung back, staring at T’Len with an unfathomable expression and pupil-less black eyes. Mayweather indicated the woman beside him as he began introductions.

“T’Len, may I introduce Chief Medical Officer Marella of the Sixth House and her niece Lianna,” he said. The woman smiled and nodded but didn’t offer to shake hands. T’Len was relieved.

“Marella... Lianna,” continued Mayweather, ”This is T’Len of Vulcan, nurse to Minister Kuvak, one of our passengers.” T’Len returned her nod, encompassing the child in her greeting. If she’d learned anything in her years as a caregiver it was the value of treating children with courtesy. Too many adults simply ignored them. Ignoring a child resulted in unruly behavior as the child attempted to gain attention for his or her actions.

As she solemnly greeted the little girl, she felt an odd tingle between the eyes, deep in the center of her head. The female medical officer turned and gave the child a reproving look through identically featureless midnight eyes. She looked as if she were communicating silently with the little girl. T’Len finally made the connection.

Betazoid telepaths, she thought uncomfortably. She’d heard of the species and that they were dangerous. The curly-headed moppet certainly didn’t look that way, though, with that shamefaced “caught in the act” expression. Although there was no physical resemblance, the penitence on her face reminded T’Len of the first child she’d had in her charge in the years after her own children were born. Was it sixty years ago or more? T’Pol had been such an impulsive child. There had been uncountable opportunities for her to wear such an expression, but it had never lasted very long. She’d been a challenge, but their time together had never been dull.

“Lianna, you know better than to try to read someone without their permission!” chided Marella. “Apologize this instant!”

Instead, the little girl’s face transformed itself into a very convincing imitation of Vulcan solemnity, and she raised her right hand in a flawless ta’al. “Peace... and long life, T’Len of Vulcan.”

T’Len was a bit taken aback by the child’s unnatural maturity, but she hid her discomfort. She returned the gesture. “Live long and prosper, Lianna of Betazed,” she replied. “And may your family prosper as well,” she added, the typical addition to the greeting when made by an adult to a child.

The little girl’s Vulcan façade cracked a little as her chin came up. Her eyes shone with tears, but she didn’t cry. She sniffed once.

“My Aunt Lana’s dead just like mama and papa... and my Aunt Arabella just cries and cries,” she confided sadly, with disarmingly childish candor.

T’Len blinked, and then blinked again. How could there be something in her eye in the enclosed environment of a spacegoing vessel? She took a deep breath and then went to one knee so that she was eye-to-eye with the little girl. It was an unfortunate truism that war was always hardest on the children. The conventional response seemed inadequate, but she made it nonetheless.

“I grieve with thee, Lianna.”

The little girl gave her a wistful smile, and then leaned over to whisper in T’Len’s ear. “You’re just like my T’Pol and my gramma all put together,” she murmured, almost inaudibly to any but Vulcan ears. “I’ll tell T’Pol you miss her when I see her again.” Then her smile brightened and she stepped back to take her aunt’s hand. Marella stood looking down at her for a moment with puzzlement clearly written on her face as T’Len struggled to contain her own surprise.

“It looks like I’ve got a budding diplomat on my hands,” said Marella, sounding both amused and surprised by her niece’s knowledge of Vulcan protocol—and fortunately oblivious to the rest of the child’s surprising knowledge.

“Indeed,” agreed T’Len dryly as she stood up again, eyeing the little girl warily.

Captain Mayweather cleared his throat. “If you ladies are done, I’m sure Lianna here is a very tired little girl,” he said in a patronizing tone. Lianna shot him an annoyed look, quickly suppressed. T’Len, inwardly amused, watched the trio as they continued down the hall. Perhaps she would look for a childcare opportunity when her current assignment was complete. Children did tend to keep one alert.

She turned toward her cabin, and was left to ponder the captain’s next question, easily heard by Vulcan ears from several meters down the corridor and around the corner.

“So...Lianna...how did you meet my brother Travis...and why do you call him ‘uncle’?”

Was the child acquainted with every intelligent being in known space?

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For a moment, when Liz showed up in Sickbay in the middle of her sleep cycle and pulled him into the isolation chamber after deactivating all of the monitors, Phlox had the fleeting notion that she intended to resume their physical relationship. The prospect alarmed him, as she had been the one to end things. He’d agreed wholeheartedly once he’d realized how much she was hurt by the idea of being forced to share him. Despite her best efforts, she’d never become comfortable with the facts of Denobulan family life. He felt great affection for her, and would never deliberately do anything to harm her, so he was relieved at the first words to come out of her mouth once they were securely locked in.

“Starfleet knows about your research,” she said reprovingly. He looked back at her, nonplussed.

“I made no attempt to hide it. I just didn’t ask permission first,” he replied nonchalantly.

“Phlox, honey!” she protested. “We could get arrested for treason! Starfleet Intelligence just sent me a document that proves that you had direct orders to put that thing in storage and leave it there unless you were authorized to use it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He grinned jauntily, shrugging. “I didn’t want to get you into trouble. If you didn’t know we weren’t supposed to use it, then you weren’t responsible,” he told her lightly, with a fond expression. “Besides...it’ll be easier just to ask forgiveness after the fact, especially once they see my results,” he bragged. Liz sighed heavily and gave him an exasperated look.

“Starfleet Intelligence thinks you’re planning to sell your results to the highest bidder,” she told him. “They’ve recruited me to spy on you and to send them your data.”

Phlox stared at her in dismay. After so many years of service to Starfleet Medical, did they still mistrust him? Was it because he was non-human?

“My intent was never espionage!” he protested. “I’ve almost completed my report to Starfleet Medical!”

Liz smiled with satisfaction, nodding. “I thought they were imagining things,” she replied in a relieved voice. Then she paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she contemplated the problem. After a moment, Phlox realized her dilemma. She’d been assigned to obtain information from him in a clandestine fashion, and had probably been warned not to reveal herself to him. They had to get his research findings to Starfleet Intelligence in a way which made it appear that she was doing what she’d been told but didn’t give anyone reason to believe that Phlox planned treason—or that he’d even been told of her interest in his highly irregular research. An idea suddenly occurred to him, and his smiled broadened.

“I’ve got it!” he told her brightly. “Here’s what we’ll do. You’ll send them your version, and I’ll send them mine. Come and have a look...”

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Ensign Phillip Norfleet, publicly of Starfleet Security but currently acting in his capacity as an agent of Section 31, sat back on his haunches against the back wall of the holding cell and stared morosely at Petty Officer Michael Nikolai “Nick” Rostov. The man sat on the bunk against the opposite wall drooling on himself. The creative tinkering Norfleet had done with the cell monitors would only last another seventeen minutes, and he had yet to get any useful information from the psychotic engineer. The Section was counting on his ability to glean enough details about the man’s contacts to follow through with their plans for infiltration of Terra Prime, but not even the drugs from his interrogation kit had made a dent in the wacko’s solid wall of complete incomprehensibility. There was no way he would be able to pass himself off as Rostov if he couldn’t even get a coherent sentence out of him. His ears perked up as the traitor began to speak.

“Bitch fried my brains,” slurred Rostov indistinctly. His head lolled as he sat half slumped over on the bunk’s thin mattress.

Finally, something understandable!

“A woman, Nick? Did she do something to you?” asked Norfleet urgently. “Where did you meet her? Was she on Earth or on Enterprise?”

“On Enterprise? Where?” repeated Rostov in a sudden panic. He was instantly awake and on guard, scrambling into the corner of the bunk to cower in a fetal position, shaking and gazing in abject terror over the tops of his knees at nothing in particular.

Well, now...that’s an interesting response, thought Norfleet ironically.

And then an idea occurred to him. He hesitated for a second. It was cruel and inhuman, but then, so was the man in front of him—and Norfleet certainly hadn’t advanced this far within the ranks of Section 31 by being merciful. So he decided to use the ammunition that fate had provided.

“Yes, Nick...she’s here, right outside the cell...waiting...” he whispered ominously. Rostov’s eyes roamed wildly and he began to whimper. A sudden smell in the air made Norfleet wrinkle his nose. The guy had pissed himself!

“I can protect you, though,” Norfleet added hastily, afraid that Rostov’s utter panic might trigger a seizure or something worse. “Just tell me everything you know about Terra Prime, and I’ll never let her touch you again,” he promised soothingly.

It was a very fruitful seventeen minutes.

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Commander Trip Tucker strolled into Sickbay that morning thirty minutes before the beginning of alpha shift with four steaming hot mugs of sweetened tea, two in his right fist and two in his left, and a self-satisfied expression on his face. It had been a week since he’d stopped his neuromodulator and, despite missing T’Mir, he felt just fine.

Maybe it’s the fact that she’s grown and I know she’s doin’ what she wants to do with her life that makes this so much easier than the first time I had to let go of her, he mused. He was, at least in his own estimation, doing better than T’Pol when it came to letting go of their pseudo-offspring. The flashes of grief he kept getting from his wife through their bond would occasionally make him wince. She, of course, denied experiencing anything of the sort.

He glanced over to the side of Sickbay now curtained off and popularly known as “Archer territory”. Twin wails issued from behind the curtain, and he could hear both Jon and Elena’s voices as they attempted to silence them. He grinned wryly. There was something to be said for skipping the infant stage altogether and gaining a full-grown member of the family, he decided.

He approached the uniform clad gathering at Lieutenant Sato’s bedside and handed out mugs with an affable smile. T’Pol accepted hers with a small nod of thanks. Hoshi, who was sitting up in bed looking a little pale but otherwise seemed fine, smiled shyly and murmured her gratitude as she took the steaming cup. Malcolm looked a bit taken aback over being served by his acting XO.

“Decided to become a steward in your spare time, sir?” he teased, blowing over his mug before taking a tentative sip. Trip shrugged and grinned over his own cup.

“The acting captain ordered tea. I figured it would be impolite not to bring enough for everybody,” he said casually. No one in the group commented on the fact that Commander T’Pol had voiced no such order.

T’Pol raised a brow and sipped. Hoshi hid her grin in her mug. Malcolm rolled his eyes, and Trip ignored him. He was feeling too good today to let teasing over being “whipped” bother him in the least. He did things for T’Pol because he wanted to. The others were just jealous.

“You were saying, Lieutenant Commander?” prompted T’Pol. Trip drank his tea and gazed at Malcolm with interest. It looked like he’d interrupted something with his impromptu morning beverage service. Malcolm cleared his throat. His eyes cut to Trip before he began to speak, obviously continuing an attempt at persuading his commanding officer. T’Pol looked unimpressed.

“As Enterprise’s Chief of Security, I believe that I have a better grasp of the extent of the security risk, if any, posed by Lieutenant Sato’s return to active duty than some bean counter sitting behind a desk at Starfleet headquarters, Commander,” insisted Malcolm. “I want it on record that I think Starfleet Command is grossly overreacting when they recommend that Hoshi be confined until after she’s been debriefed and cleared by security personnel on Earth. If Romulans have in fact entered Human space, she’s our best chance of discovering what they want and how to stop them. She should be on the bridge, not confined to quarters.”

“Lieutenant Commander, my original orders were to confine her to the brig,” countered T’Pol patiently. “I managed to convince Admiral Gardner that your security precautions are quite adequate, and that her quarters would serve. Only thirty minutes ago I received confirmation of a Romulan attack on a Betazoid diplomatic courier on the outskirts of Vulcan territory...as Admiral Gardner put it, ‘right in Earth’s back yard’.” She paused, gazing at him sternly. “Answer this question... were the lieutenant someone with whom you did not have an intimate relationship, would you be so willing to trust her unconditionally after the length of time she’s spent mentally joined with a Romulan artifact?”

Malcolm looked like a huge offended catfish as he stammered, attempting to come up with a civil response to her question. Trip just bit his tongue and winced, waiting for the explosion he knew was coming. The question was a low blow. He wondered whether T’Pol understood how insulted Malcolm was going to be by her implication of unprofessional favoritism on his part. Fortunately, before Malcolm was able to come up with a reply that would have probably landed him in the brig for insubordination, Hoshi came to his rescue. She cleared her throat. Her voice was a bit hoarse.

“Ummm... Commander? Can I assume by the fact that you’re having this discussion in front of me that I can say something?” she asked hesitantly. Malcolm opened his mouth, but T’Pol raised a hand abruptly. Trip winced again, smiling ruefully, and stepped back a little. T’Pol was finally getting into this command business, a little too enthusiastically, to his way of thinking. He didn’t want to be in the way if Malcolm decided he’d had enough. To the security officer’s credit, though, he seemed to be holding it together. He stood stiffly at attention with his features carefully blank. Military training was a wonderful thing. Insulted or not, Malcolm was still a professional soldier in the presence of his commanding officer.

“Yes, Lieutenant. Of course you may speak,” conceded T’Pol.

“Although I appreciate the Lieutenant Commander’s confidence in me...,” began Hoshi with an apologetic glance at Malcolm, “... and I know a little bit about what’s happened to my brain since I was linked with the Romulan shuttle, I’m not sure yet about what it all means. Doctor Phlox said he’d explain when I was ready,” she admitted. She looked from Malcolm’s protesting expression to Trip’s sympathetic smile, and finally returned T’Pol’s solemn gaze with a hesitant half-smile. “Maybe we should ask Doctor Phlox what he thinks?” she suggested diffidently.

As if her words prompted his appearance from thin air, Phlox rounded the corner from his lab, whistling cheerfully. He stopped in his tracks with all eyes fixed on him.

“May I help you?” he asked hesitantly, looking from one intense face to the other in puzzlement.

“We’re discussing Lieutenant Sato’s return to duty, Doctor,” explained T’Pol delicately. “Do you have any advice regarding the best action to maintain both her safety and the safety of the crew?” she asked—very diplomatically, Trip thought.

Phlox’s eyes widened. “Ah...” he said with an uncomfortable grimace, “...I see...” He paused for a moment, hesitating.

“It’s all right, Doctor. You can tell them. As my friends, they should know before Starfleet does... and you said yourself that it might not even make that much of a difference,” prompted Hoshi with a weak smile.

Phlox returned her smile sympathetically and nodded. “Very well, Lieutenant,” he replied. He exhaled heavily, and then stepped to his work console to bring up what looked to Trip like scans of the brain. Trip exchanged a worried look with Malcolm, who seemed equally clueless.

“This is a neurochemical scan of the lieutenant’s brain activity prior to her encounter with the Romulan shuttle,” Phlox began. He gestured at the more colorful areas. “Aside from increased metabolic activity in both the language center and the limbic areas, which control human telepathic activity, this is normal human brain activity.”

Guess I’ll take his word for it, thought Trip wryly. Malcolm looked impatient. T’Pol inspected the image as if she understood what she was looking at, but Trip could see that she was curious despite the shields that hid her emotions from him. Phlox pulled up a second scan.

“Here’s an image from yesterday,” he continued. It was a little less colorful than the first. “You’ll notice that the language center remains quite active, but the activity in the limbic centers has decreased by half. In fact, after testing yesterday, Lieutenant Sato’s telepathic ability rates in the low normal human range. That is to say, for all intents and purposes, it is zero. Linkage with the Romulan device seems to have damaged the telepathic centers of her brain. The damage is likely to be permanent, as it involves the death of brain cells, which do not regenerate in adult humans,” he finished flatly.

“And what does this have to do with allowing her to return to duty, Doctor? Lieutenant Sato has never functioned as a telepath in her role as Communications Officer,” said T’Pol, puzzled.

“I must disagree, Commander,” replied Phlox in a conciliatory tone. “It’s likely that at least a portion of the lieutenant’s gift with real-time translation is a result of her unconscious use of telepathic skill. It is probable, however, that her intelligence and training will compensate well enough for her to do an excellent, if perhaps no longer miraculous, job...and as a non-telepath she is no longer a security risk to this ship should another telepath attempt to contact and control her as has occurred in the past. I know that the possibility of another such incident must weigh heavily on the minds of those in Starfleet Intelligence who spend their careers worrying about such things.”

T’Pol raised a brow. Trip could feel intense relief leaking past her barriers as the import of the doctor’s words registered. Malcolm smiled at Hoshi. She returned his smile a little wistfully. Malcolm turned his attention to Phlox.

“So, you’ll report this to Starfleet Command, then?” Malcolm’s statement sounded more like an order than a request.

“The report is already on its way,” replied Phlox in a self-satisfied tone. “Once Lieutenant Sato is well enough for duty, it is my opinion that she should be allowed to return to her station. Her linkage to the Romulan device has not resulted in an increased risk to this ship. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact.” He stepped forward to the bed and lifted his bioscanner, gently shouldering the group aside. “Now, if this matter is settled could I please ask you to take this meeting elsewhere? Lieutenant Sato needs her rest,” he said with his attention wholly focused on the scanner.

T’Pol stared at the back of Phlox’s head with a startled expression, and then turned to leave without comment, placing her tea mug neatly on the breakfast service cart on her way out the door. Malcolm followed suit. Trip chuckled and did the same, shaking his head. No one argued with Phlox in his domain. Not even the acting captain.

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Arabella opened her eyes and turned her head, expecting to find Lana sleeping in the bed beside her. Instead, Maya’s sweet drowsy face greeted her, and beyond her the protective railing of a Sickbay biobed. Then reality hit, and Arabella closed her eyes again with a whimper. A tiny sticky hand patted her cheek, and then a pair of small warm arms encircled her neck. She wrapped her own arms around the snuggly, squirmy bundle plastered to her chest, buried her face in the short springy cushion of hair atop Maya’s head and sniffed back the tears.

“Po’ Mama,” voiced Maya sadly. Arabella blinked and pulled back to stare at her daughter in surprise. At 15 months, Maya had a necessarily limited vocabulary. This was an actual sentence—one she hadn’t heard before.

“Did you say ‘Poor Mama’?” she asked in disbelief. Maya patted her cheek again with one small, dark hand, staring at her seriously with deep brown pupil-less eyes.

“It awwite, Mama,” she said reassuringly in her infantile lisp. “Don’ cwy.”

Arabella began to laugh through her tears. Evidently, association with her preternaturally precocious cousin was starting to rub off on the child. Maya smiled back, giggling.

“Well, good morning! I’m glad the two of you are feeling better.” A warmly maternal voice sounded from across the room. Arabella turned to find a smiling middle-aged woman with dusky skin, short salt and pepper hair, and a still slim and muscular figure. She looked very familiar. Arabella’s puzzlement must have been obvious, because the woman immediately introduced herself, extending a hand in human fashion.

“Rianna Mayweather... engineer, medic, and part time momma to the entire crew of the Horizon. We found your escape pod. It’s a small universe, isn’t it?” she offered with a grin. Arabella gripped her hand, searching her face. Surely the name wasn’t a coincidence. The surface thoughts she picked up from the woman confirmed her suspicions.

“You’re Travis’ mother...?!” she ventured, amazed.

“Sure am!” Rianna confirmed cheerfully. Then she paused, waiting expectantly. To Arabella’s surprise, she sensed nothing but acceptance and welcome from the woman. Had Travis not told her of their arrangement?

“Arabella of the Sixth House...,” she began. Eyeing Rianna cautiously, she said, “My spouse Lana is... was... the captain of The Saber of Betazed.” She winced inwardly at the admission of Lana’s death. It still seemed unreal. Rianna grimaced sympathetically.

“I know... I’m so sorry for your loss,” replied the human sincerely. Her eyes fell on Maya, who was still tucked under Arabella’s chin. “She’ll need lots of reassurance. Little ones always do when they lose a parent. Maybe I can help,” she offered hopefully.

Arabella blinked, taken aback by the offer. She half-smiled, hesitantly. “I suppose Travis told you, then, about how he helped us.”

Rianna chuckled, holding out her hands. Maya, to Arabella’s surprise, detached readily from around her neck and went to the older woman of her own accord. “I think it’s pretty obvious he had something to do with this one,” said Rianna fondly, lifting the baby into her arms and studying her features. Maya reached up and stroked the human woman’s short clipped cushion of hair as if she recognized its similarity to her own. Arabella felt a twinge of jealousy, but she sensed no threat from the human, only joy at finally being with her granddaughter.

Perhaps that was why Maya had gone to her so easily. She recognized that she and the human belonged together. Not for the first time, Arabella wondered how growing up on a planet where she was physically different in appearance and perhaps even deficient in ability from everyone she knew would affect her daughter. There were times when her own mother’s admonishments to “think before you act” came back to haunt her.

“Can you say ‘Momma Ri’?” whispered Rianna to the child in her arms. Arabella smiled wistfully. She’d never known her own grandmothers, who had died before she was born.

Maya grinned, grabbed a handful of the short springy grey-sprinkled hair with which she’d recently become so fascinated, and pulled.

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Commander T’Pol of Vulcan proceeded down the corridor to the turbolift with her security officer on her heels. Trip followed them. She kept her shields up, as was her usual habit whenever possible while in command, and maintained her composure despite the obvious anger radiating from the man at her side. As she stood waiting for the lift to the bridge, however, her eyes cut to Lieutenant Commander Reed’s rigid expression. He still said nothing. She glanced past him toward her bondmate, who was gazing at her with a fondly exasperated look on his face. Curious about the source of his emotional response, she dropped her shields. His thoughts surprised her.

<<You do not approve of the way I spoke to Mr. Reed,>> she sent, puzzled.

Trip smiled minutely, and raised a brow in unconscious imitation of his wife. <<You were kinda hard on him, darlin’.>>

The lift arrived. The three of them stepped in.

“Engineering,” said Trip.

“Bridge,” said T’Pol.

Malcolm said nothing.

<<I was merely pointing out the flaws in his thought processes,>> she retorted silently. <<It is illogical to assume that he would capable of complete objectivity where his mate is concerned.>>

Trip rolled his eyes. The doors opened to the Engineering level. <<Just because you couldn’t do it doesn’t mean he can’t, T’Pol,>> he sent. Then he stepped out, giving both of them a mocking wave.

The doors shut, leaving T’Pol alone in the turbolift with Malcolm. She eyed him warily. He never even looked at her. She exhaled heavily, staring at the doors. It was going to be a very long day.

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Hoshi Sato stepped into her cabin for the first time in nearly a month. The room was considerably neater than when she’d left, thanks to—according to Malcolm—a thorough going over by the security detail that had been charged with looking for clues related to her disappearance and the subsequent clean-up he’d ordered after they’d literally trashed her cabin. It felt strange to enter the room, almost as if she’d been gone years instead of weeks.

It might as well have been years, she mused bitterly. I’m not the same person as I was the last time I was in here.

Even though she hadn’t even been aware of her telepathic talent until the temporal agent Isis had begun to instruct her, its loss was affecting her much more profoundly than she would have expected. On the one hand, she felt relief over the fact that she was no longer any more vulnerable to telepathic influence than any other human aboard Enterprise. On the other, she feared what the lack of telepathic talent would do to her linguistic abilities. Her gift with languages was her only asset—the only thing that set her apart from the ordinary. It defined her as a person, and had since she was a child. If her ability to translate depended on telepathic skill, then she was no longer capable of doing her job. Even worse, she was no longer herself. The possibility terrified her.

Taking a shaky breath, she took a seat at the desk and activated her computer console. The doctor had released her from Sickbay earlier than he’d initially planned so she could take this incoming subspace call in privacy. There was no point in wasting the subspace window woolgathering about scary possibilities. She opened the video comm channel. McNamara’s freckled face appeared with the bridge’s science station in the background behind him.

“All right, Ensign. Put him through,” she said with a sigh.

The view shifted. A frail looking grey-haired Japanese man dressed in a traditional plain white kimono appeared. Behind him, paper screens painted with stylized cranes and stalks of bamboo provided a backdrop. In the silence she could hear the rush of water from an unseen fountain. The man smiled broadly.

“Hoshi-chan!” he said enthusiastically. His voice brought back memories of her childhood.

“Hello, Jijii. You’re looking well,” she replied, smiling fondly. He seemed much healthier than when she’d left after her last visit. Of course, he’d had nearly two years to recover from her grandmother’s death. They’d been married over sixty years. The shock had nearly killed him.

“Papa says you’ve moved into the Shintobuddist monastery. Are you happy as a priest?” she asked curiously. The news had amused her, but she hadn’t been surprised. Her grandfather had always seemed to glide through life, half in the real world and half somewhere else—the proverbial absent-minded professor, even when he’d been chairman of the Department of Eastern Philosophy at the university. The priesthood had been an understandable next step. At least he had others around him to remind him to eat and wash now that his wife wasn’t there to do it.

“I am very content,” replied the old man complacently, “...or at least I will be once you come to visit me.” With just a hint of mischief in his eyes he said, “You must bring your young man so that I may bless your union, and then you should leave this war to the warriors and begin the process of making my great-grandchildren as soon as possible. Your father tells me that he believes things are serious between the two of you, since all you ever speak about in your calls is the brave Lieutenant Commander and his noble devotion to duty,” he continued teasingly.

“Jijii!” protested Hoshi laughingly, “I do not! I tell Papa plenty of other things!” She stopped laughing then, and told him seriously, “And you mustn’t call him ‘my young man’. Starfleet has strict regulations about such things. You could get us both in a lot of trouble.”

The old man nodded wisely. “I see,” he replied slowly. He pursed his lips, obviously concocting something. “Well, I would still enjoy meeting him,” he said innocently. Hoshi laughed, shaking her head at her grandfather’s transparent matchmaking.

“Don’t worry, Jijii. We’re both coming. Papa already told me that he wants to meet Malcolm, too.” She gave her grandfather a pleading look. “Just try not to embarrass me, okay?” she begged.

The old priest gazed back at her with mock effrontery. “Now why would I ever do that?” he asked. He paused, evidently for dramatic effect. “By the way...how much Japanese does the heroic Mr. Reed understand?”

Hoshi gave him a puzzled look. “Just a few words...Why?” she asked hesitantly, waiting for the punch line.

“Oh...no particular reason,” he replied airily. “I was just wondering if I could get away with a Shinto fertility ritual or two, just in case.”

“Jijiiii!!!”

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Fifteen minutes after the end of his duty shift, Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed was in the gym having an up close and personal confrontation with a punching bag that, in his mind’s eye, sported a pair of pointed ears and a smugly superior attitude. His pace was a steady “jab...punch, punch”, and he’d been at it so far for ten minutes without a break. He found the experience liberating.

Commander Tucker entered the gym and tossed a grin and a casual “Hi, Mal!” over one shoulder before stepping up on a treadmill. Malcolm ignored him. This wasn’t something he felt comfortable discussing with his friend. There was no way for Trip to take either side. Talking about it with him would accomplish nothing. So he clenched his teeth and kept hitting the bloody bag.

Fifteen minutes later, he added roundhouse kicks to his repertoire. “Jab, roundhouse...punch, punch” became the new rhythm. He was dripping with sweat, his breathing harsh. Still, he continued without a pause, alternating sides for the kick. He heard Trip finish the cardio portion of his workout and step off the treadmill. The rhythmic clink of weights soon followed.

“So, Mal... what did that poor punchin’ bag ever do to you?”

Malcolm paused, his rhythm thrown off by his friend’s joking question. Trip sat on the weight bench across the room doing one armed curls and grinning at him. Surprisingly, the gym was otherwise deserted.

Malcolm smiled back at him reluctantly, wiping his sweaty forehead with the hem of his soaked grey t-shirt. “It’s an insufferably superior and hypocritical punching bag,” he replied ironically, breathing hard. “I decided to take it down a peg.”

Trip chuckled and switched the dumbbell to his other hand. “Yep. I’ve noticed that about punchin’ bags. When they’re new they’re kinda stiff. Takes some time for ‘em to get seasoned before they’ll give ya a good workout without hurtin’ ya some,” he replied half-jokingly. Then his face sobered. “Doesn’t mean they aren’t good equipment, though,” he said sincerely. “Ya gotta give ‘em a chance to get pounded inta shape first.”

“This one’s been here for some time. I would have expected it to be well-seasoned by now,” Malcolm countered disapprovingly. Trip nodded, smiling wryly.

“I see your point.” He shrugged. “I guess some need longer than others ta get there. I suppose it depends on what they’re like as...um...punchin’ bags to begin with,” he attempted, stretching the metaphor a little, Malcolm thought.

Dropping the discussion for a moment to lie back on the bench, Trip grasped the barbell in both hands. Malcolm walked across the room to spot him without being asked. They’d done this so many times by now that it was a reflex, like breathing.

“I suppose I could try giving this one a bit more time,” Malcolm conceded as he stood at the head of the bench while Trip did his reps. There was silence for several seconds. Trip grunted as he pushed the barbell up for the final time and laid it to rest. He looked up at Malcolm and grinned, sticking his tongue in one cheek before taking their conversation to a previously unattained pinnacle of silliness.

“That’s not ta say that a punchin’ bag couldn’t benefit from a little advice now and then,” he said. Malcolm rolled his eyes and sighed.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” he replied dryly. They switched places.

As Malcolm lay back on the bench and grasped the barbell, Trip changed the subject.

“So, are ya really gonna go to Japan with Hoshi to meet her dad?” he asked. Malcolm exhaled forcefully as he pushed the weight off of his chest.

“Her father and her grandfather, the Shintobuddist priest,” clarified Malcolm in a slightly strained voice. He lowered the barbell as Trip let out a low whistle.

“Boy, Mal...when you decide ta meet the family you don’t mess around, do ya?” he marveled.

Malcolm smiled weakly as he did another rep, but said nothing.

“So, I guess this means things are gettin’ pretty serious between you and Hoshi,” Trip probed.

The silence was deafening. Malcolm pushed the barbell up and down two more times before he spoke.

“I was going to...you know...pop the question,” replied Malcolm with a grimace. “But that was...unh...when she was considering joining the Intelligence...unh...Department on Earth.” He pushed the weights up for the final time and brought them to rest. He looked up to find Trip staring at him.

“She’s gonna leave the Enterprise?” he asked, dumbfounded. Malcolm sat up.

“Well...yes,” he admitted. “That was the general idea.” He shrugged. “If we plan to marry, at least one of us would have to. She felt that I had more to offer a combat vessel, and so she volunteered to be the one to leave...but I’m not sure what will happen now.” He sighed, resting both elbows on his knees and looking down at his hands. His fingers laced themselves together and twisted, almost of their own accord. “She’s not sure now if Starfleet Intelligence will have her,” he said softly. “She may not be able to transfer back to Earth if she can no longer translate effectively, and I’d much rather have her here than on another combat vessel.”

“Whaddya mean, ‘if she can’t translate’?” Trip asked in a puzzled tone. Then his eyes widened in realization. “Oh...the telepathy thing...”

Malcolm nodded, smiling wryly. “Yes. ‘The telepathy thing’,” he confirmed.

A laughing group of junior crewmen entered the gym. The group was composed of four girls and one muscular young man with impossibly sun-streaked blonde hair and a winning smile. The girls gathered around him admiringly as he walked to a weight bench and settled himself. He joked and flirted with them all with impartial enthusiasm as he began a set of biceps curls with a well laden dumbbell. Malcolm had no idea who he was, but he was envious of the kid. Life was simple for boys like him.

Trip crossed his arms over his chest and stuck his tongue in one cheek, studying the newcomers with a thoughtful expression. Malcolm eyed him suspiciously. The engineer looked as if yet another wild idea was percolating.

“Know who that kid is, Mal?” Trip asked in a speculative tone. Malcolm stared at him quizzically.

“No,” he answered bluntly, very puzzled by his friend’s sudden complete change of subject.

Trip smiled slightly, still staring across the room. “His name is Tex Wormald. He’s a junior crewman from Engineering. He loves to tell stories to the ladies. The other day, Janice Hess told me an interesting one.”

Malcolm stared at him. What was he getting at?

“A hundred years ago, Wormald’s great grandfather was instrumental in saving at least six species of South African antelope from extinction by feeding them during the nuclear winter that followed World War Three. He’s a tenth generation South African, and in addition to English and some Afrikaans, his family and their neighbors, the descendents of a small indigenous African tribe, are the only living beings anywhere who speak an African language called... lemme see if I can get this right... Xhosa.”

Malcolm blinked. “Gesuntheit,” he replied jokingly. The name of the language was pronounced like a cross between a cough and a sneeze. Trip chuckled.

“Sounds sorta like Klingon, doesn’t it?” he quipped. He grinned broadly, looking directly at Malcolm, and raised a brow. “I’ve checked before, just out of curiosity. Xhosa isn’t one of the languages on Hoshi’s two page list of claimed fluencies. We’ll assign him to help her to prove she still has her skills and forbid him to speak anything but Xhosa in her presence. Wanna bet she’ll be conversing with him like a native before we hit Jupiter Station in three days?”

“Let me clarify this plan, Commander,” countered Malcolm in disbelief, pointing at the muscle bound fellow. “You want me to purposely allow that bloke access to Hoshi?”

“Mal! He’s a boy! Hoshi’ll never go for him,” Trip reassured him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about... and think of what it’ll do for her self-confidence. She won’t have any doubts about whether Starfleet Intelligence will take her, so she’ll ask for the transfer and the two of you can get married.”

Malcolm studied the young man doubtfully with a wrinkled brow, still puzzled.

“Why ‘Tex’?” he asked finally. Trip shrugged, grinning.

“The girls tell me it’s a family name. I think his great-great-grampa was obsessed with American westerns. Besides...I’m told that women really go for the cowboy type.”

Malcolm sighed and rolled his eyes. “Bloody wonderful!” he said.

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“Harder,” said T’Pol in a pained voice. “Push harder.”

Trip sat on his heels straddling her upper thighs. He wore a blue t-shirt and a loose pair of grey sweatpants. She was lying face down on a row of meditation cushions laid out on the floor, clad only in the bottoms of her blue silk pajamas. He pushed with the heels of both hands into her bare back, bearing down with all of his weight.

“You’re so wound up tonight I could probably jump up and down on ya and not make any headway with these knots,” he complained. “Relax!”

“I am attempting to do so,” she protested. He removed his hands from her back, rocked backwards on his heels, and threw himself forward, leading with the points of his elbows. “...but I would prefer if you would push harder....unh!” The impact of his elbows knocked the wind out of her for a second, and then she melted limply into the cushions with a blissful sigh. He collapsed on the floor next to her, breathing hard.

“Better?” he asked softly. He lifted a hand and brushed it lightly along the curve of her spine, marveling yet again about how something so fragile appearing could be so strong.

“Yes...,” she whispered sleepily.

He began to knead the now relaxed muscles of her upper back with smooth, firm strokes. She sighed. He could sense very little from her except fatigue, she’d gotten so good at shielding her emotions from him.

“Rough day at the office, dear?” he murmured half-jokingly, trying to draw her out with humor as he rubbed. Her emotional isolation worried him, in part because of the grief he knew she’d been battling since T’Mir’s departure, but also because he knew that she was still not entirely comfortable with being in command after the debacle at Azati Prime.

She was silent for several minutes, breathing deeply as his fingers probed for trigger points. Finally, she spoke.

“You believe that I was in error when I assumed that Mr. Reed would be incapable of objectivity regarding Lieutenant Sato,” she said softly. It was a statement, not a question. Despite her shields, he heard the self-doubt in her voice.

He sighed. So that was it.

“Not necessarily,” he replied as he continued down her back. “It makes sense for a captain to be worried about objectivity, especially considerin’ what you know about the two of them. It’s just...” Trip paused, trying to think of a diplomatic way to say what needed to be said, and sighed again. “You never seem to take emotions into account when you deal with people under your command,” he said finally.

“I’m not certain that I understand you,” she replied in a puzzled voice, rolling over to look at him. He grinned, enjoying the view, and then shook his head.

“It’s like this... Mal knows his judgment’s probably compromised. He probably even agrees with you. But you, his captain, basically called him an unprofessional idiot in front of his girlfriend and his actin’ XO and verbally confirmed a major violation of Starfleet regulations in front of witnesses.”

She cocked her head at him, looking very confused.

“But everyone in the meeting was aware of the relationship and its possible ramifications,” she said, sounding baffled by his statement. Trip exhaled in frustration.

“I know that! But knowin’ about it and talkin’ about it are two different things, especially comin’ from you or from me, since we’re basically in the same situation. It makes you sound like you think you’re better than he is, and you end up soundin’ like a hypocrite,” he explained, wincing as he did so. There just wasn’t any better way to put it.

“I am in command. It is my job to point out violations of Starfleet policy when they occur and to prevent them from interfering with the orderly operation of this vessel,” she returned stiffly. He could tell that she was starting to get angry. Her shields were weakening. The increased respiratory rate made her bare chest heave very nicely, which made it difficult for him to concentrate, but he did his best.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “It’s your job...but couldn’t you have just as easily discussed it with him in private?”

She contemplated his question in silence. One brow went up.

“I could have,” she agreed reluctantly. “Unfortunately, it never even occurred to me to do so.”

Trip gazed back at her sympathetically. “So...are you gonna let me help now, or not?”

She gave him an uncomprehending look. He grinned wryly.

“I’m well, now. The Doc says so,” he said, “...so droppin’ your shields won’t hurt me. I’m also your best information source for human social interaction.” He spread his arms wide, his face suddenly earnestly serious. “I’m here for you, T’Pol. I’m supposed to be your second in command. Drop the damned shields and use me! I can give you advice. You can forget the fact that we’re married while we’re on duty if you want to. Just don’t block me out anymore!”

T’Pol’s brown eyes were wide and liquid as they searched his face. He gazed at her pleadingly, and suddenly felt something break through the barrier between them. T’Pol reached out and grasped his hands in hers, and the jumble of gratitude, fear, sorrow, and regret that she’d been hiding from him poured out. It nearly broke his heart.

Without a word, he picked up her pajama top from the floor and helped her put it on, his eyes never leaving hers as he buttoned it. He took her by the hand and led her to the bed, and she curled up within the circle of his arms. He held her, trying his best to help her with her efforts to master the maelstrom of emotions she’d set loose. Peace settled on both of them, an acceptance of their deep-seated need for one another, and the fatigue of a long day caught up with them. It wasn’t long before they were both sound asleep.

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It was unusually quiet in the fire station. San Francisco Spaceport Rescue was a slow division these days, what with the limitations on private off world travel mandated by Starfleet Command. The only vessels coming in or going out were military, and their safety protocols were strictly by the book.

Joey Ponsello ran a hand over his bristle cut head, yawned, and stepped out the back door of the station. His sister Paula, similarly shorn and alike enough to make it obvious that they were twins, stood waiting for him with a duffle bag over one shoulder. She looked better rested than he felt. Of course, she’d been off duty the night before.

There was a brisk breeze blowing, and the beginning of an autumn coolness that September morning despite the sunshine.

“Did the captain see you leave?” asked Paula worriedly. Joey chuckled derisively, shaking his head.

“Milo’s still in bed. He was up late last night taking a subspace call from his alien-loving girlfriend. She’ll be in system in three days, and, according to the lovesick raving I was treated to last night, is about to drop his kid at any minute. He’s not paying attention to anything now.”

Paula exhaled in relief. “Good. I’ve got the stuff. Let’s go.”

They walked to the garage. It was deserted. The runway rescue response vehicle was prepped and ready to go, as always, filled with cylinders of fire-suppressive foam. With Paula’s help, Joey pulled out two of the heavy cylinders to get to the bed of the truck. He opened one of the long storage bins, which were filled with blankets and first aid supplies, the sorts of things that were needed after the cylinders were depleted and more easily pushed aside. He pulled out one of the first aid kits, dumped the contents out onto the truck bed, and began replacing them with items from Paula’s bag. The hypospray unit she handed him looked just like the standard pain relief hypospray included in every first aid kit, but it contained succinylcholine, a paralytic agent that worked even better on Vulcans than on humans. Once metabolized, it was virtually undetectable, and the victim would appear to have simply stopped breathing. It was fast acting, too. They’d only be near the Vulcan minister for a few minutes, so speed of onset was important.

“So... did they tell you why they want to off this guy?” he asked Paula. She grinned and shrugged.

“Does there have to be a reason to get rid of a Vulcan?” she returned lightly.

To Be Continued...Again...in Part Three.

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